The Unforgettable Christmas: 2010
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: [COMPLETE] A bit of festive fun centred around the first Christmas in Baker Street. Features friendship but no slash, a dash of humour, a bit of fluff, and a little too much mulled wine.
1. 1st Sunday in Advent

**Hello to all my readers! How did it get to Advent?! It being the first Advent Sunday tomorrow, I have decided to post the first instalment of a bit of a Christmas special that I have been putting together for a while now.**

 **It's essentially a series of oneshots set around the Christmas of the first year in Baker Street. I have borrowed fragments from some of my failed stories, and from things that were never stories to start with, and I've even written some new material, all to form a fic that I hope you enjoy.**

 **By the way, I looked at the BBC's attempt at John's blog about halfway through writing this, and discovered that my time scales are all a bit skewed according to that particular source. I have chosen therefore to ignore that version of events. Any other mistakes are entirely my own and I apologise.**

 **I do not own** ** _Sherlock_** **. I feel as if that would be too much responsibility.**

* * *

 **1** **st** **Sunday in Advent, 2010**

* * *

'Did you know Mrs H was in a choir?' John asked as he hung up his coat.

Sherlock did not turn round from where he was slumped in his chair. 'Yes.'

'Stupid question. You know everything,' said John with a laugh, coming to sit in his own chair, tired out after an exhausting day at work. People had an annoying tendency to get ill around Christmas, just when he didn't want to work quite so hard.

'Church choir, isn't it?' said Sherlock vaguely.

'Yes... They're doing a carol-service this weekend. It'll be the first Sunday in Advent, won't it?' At this Sherlock merely shrugged. 'Anyway, I think she quite wants us to come.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'She can't possibly think it's my sort of thing.'

' _Sher_ lock,' John scolded him. 'It would be really nice of you. Appreciative. After all she's done for you, an hour of your time –'

'Mrs Hudson knows I appreciate her,' countered Sherlock. 'I've saved her life several times over the past year. Is that not enough?'

John let out a sigh. He had known Sherlock for almost a year now, and he had put up with him for nearly all of that, but there were some things about his friend that he just couldn't support. 'What do you have against –'

'Can you imagine me at a carol-service?' Sherlock demanded of him.

To this John could not find a response. 'But it'll only last an hour or so, not long. Mrs H really wants us to come.'

'I suppose you're going.'

John looked indignant. 'Yes. Of course.'

'Even though it's not your sort of thing either?'

John nodded with a raised eyebrow. 'It won't be that bad. I haven't sung in a while though. Could be interesting.' He paused. 'Come on. I don't want to go on my own.'

'I'm not coming.'

'You're not doing anything this weekend.'

'I'm not coming.'

'Please, Sherlock.'

'I'm not coming!'

* * *

Sherlock swished into the church with the air of a child who has been dragged somewhere by his parents. He hadn't been to church since he had left home – it had been the bane of his life, having to go out every Sunday morning, just at the time when his brain seemed to work best. And anyway, growing up in an essentially Christian household had always been inconvenient for his logical brain. He would never understand religion, and what he didn't understand he didn't tend to like.

Carol services, John had tried to persuade him, were different. Lots of people went to carol services who didn't usually go to church, and who weren't even religious. Most people found them fun. It was nice to enter into the Christmas spirit a bit; and anyway, John wanted to make Mrs Hudson happy.

Sherlock sighed. He liked to see Mrs Hudson happy – he liked to see anyone happy, especially when he had made them that way, because it meant he had said or done something right for once. But making people happy without solving a crime for them or saving their life was always so damned tiring.

John found them a seat at the end of an empty pew that wasn't behind a pillar, and they sat down, taking off their outer layers. Sherlock stared grumpily ahead and tried to deduce things about the people around him, and studied the stained glass window with no small degree of boredom. The choir stalls were for the moment empty, but sent a small shudder down his spine. He had always felt a little resentment towards church choirs ever since Mycroft had been chosen for one and he hadn't.

At length the church had filled up a bit (though not much – Sherlock felt a little self-conscious as he realised they were alone on their row and rather visible to the rest of the church, rather than being squished in among crowds that would hide them), and the choir emerged from the vestry, all garbed in long white robes with red silk at the collars and wrists. They caught sight of Mrs Hudson, who looked perfectly silly in her robe, and she giggled silently and beamed at them. John waved a little. Sherlock allowed himself a smile that was more like some kind of tic at the corner of his mouth.

And they all stood, and launched into the first carol, which was Hark the Herald. John sang fairly terribly, but quietly, because he didn't overestimate his singing ability. Anyway, he was drowned out by a small eager girl in front of him who didn't know most of the words but sang loudly regardless. He was however distracted halfway through the carol not by this overenthusiastic child, but by the realisation that the rather good voice he could hear nearby belonged to – Sherlock.

Sherlock had his eyes closed, and sang in a deep and rich voice, a voice that, with a certain amount of tailoring, could have become excellent. It seemed the detective had another hidden talent. John had known that Sherlock was a musician, of course – he seemed to spend half his time playing his violin, whether he was producing strangled tones not unlike the sound of two fighting cats, or eking out the most gorgeous melodies that anyone would have fallen for regardless of their tastes in music – but he hadn't known that he could _sing_.

He tried not to stare, and sat down at the end of the carol without so much as a comment. Sherlock looked spectacularly nonchalant, as usual, and watched the preacher narrate his reading without hearing a word of it. To be perfectly honest, John too tuned out a bit for the majority of the service, roused only by the loud and glorious organ-playing that introduced each carol, and by that extraordinary baritone voice that came from his friend's mouth. Sherlock didn't even _like_ Christmas carols that much. He wasn't even trying. If he actually put some effort in, who knows what he would produce? He was, quite frankly, better than most of the singers in the choir.

When the service was over, Sherlock immediately went for his coat, but John stopped him.

'Don't go just yet,' he said. 'I want to find Mrs H; and anyway, there are mince pies.'

'Dammit,' Sherlock murmured. John would probably be there all evening now.

'Oh, and your singing was great,' John said then, grinning a little.

Sherlock glared at him a little, as if he hadn't realised how loud he had been. The slightest hint of a blush began to spread into his impossibly pale cheeks.

'Did you learn to sing when you were younger, or –'

Sherlock shrugged. He had pulled his coat on despite John telling him not to for the moment, and had drawn the collar up above his chin, so that his expression wasn't quite visible. 'I was almost a choirboy... Mycroft was. I didn't fancy it.'

John had to admit to himself that he couldn't imagine Sherlock in the robes of a choirboy, and understood his distaste at the idea. He chuckled at the image of Mycroft in such apparel. 'You're so good though. You could be on the stage.'

Sherlock seemed to take this turn of phrase literally. 'I almost was once. They tried to make me be in Les Misérables. I refused, of course.'

John grinned. 'Of course... I can't imagine you in a musical. Even a gloomy one like Les Mis. Anyway, let's grab some mince pies before they all go, and – ah, there's Mrs H. Mrs Hudson!'

The little woman came over and beamed at them both, before bestowing them with cups of tea and dainty mince pies.

'You managed to bring Sherlock?' Mrs Hudson said, nodding towards the detective, who was staring very pointedly towards the door, and nibbling his mince pie absent-mindedly. 'It's lovely of you both to come. I didn't know if you'd... well, like it, you know.'

'It was good,' John assured her. 'Not my sort of thing, admittedly, but... cheerful. And the choir – you were really good.'

'Thank you, John,' said Mrs Hudson, patting his shoulder affectionately, and glancing towards Sherlock. John coughed a little.

Sherlock started. 'Yes, yes... very good,' he murmured.

'Turns out our Sherlock can sing,' John continued with a grin.

'Oh, _can_ you, dear?' Mrs Hudson said. She looked as if Christmas had come early. 'Do you know, we're short of baritones –'

She had been sipping from her cup of tea, and now looked up to where the detective had been standing; to her surprise, he had already entirely vanished.

'Gone off sulking, I expect,' chuckled John, and, after he had finished his tea, he stuffed his mince pie into his mouth and hurried off back to Baker Street.

* * *

'It's Advent, then!' John said in slight surprise, leaning back in his armchair.

'Indeed.' Sherlock wasn't concentrating. He sipped from a cup of tea that John had just handed him, and shuffled into the corner of his own chair, his eyelids beginning to flutter.

'I was looking on the blog earlier. Couldn't believe it was almost a year ago we moved in here.'

Sherlock furrowed his brow and said nothing. He didn't much care for the passage of time, unlike, it seemed sometimes, the majority of the population.

'It's been a – well, a pretty good year, actually,' John considered. 'Exciting.'

'If you say so,' replied Sherlock.

'You certainly looked excited, a lot of the time,' John told him. 'C'mon, would it be that hard to admit that you do in fact experience positive emotions?'

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking a bit deflated. 'Yes. Yes, then. It hasn't been a bad year.'

'And the carol service wasn't a bad start to Christmas.'

'It wasn't the worst.'

John smirked a little. That was about the closest he would get to forcing Sherlock to admit that he had enjoyed himself. 'Nearly Christmas! We'll have to start thinking about what to do.'

'Do?'

'To celebrate... God, Sherlock, stop pretending you don't know anything about normal life... Should we invite people to ours on Christmas Day? A sort of belated housewarming? Should we get a fake tree or a real one? When should we start sending out cards? – That sort of thing.'

'You're forgetting the most important thing, John,' Sherlock informed him.

'What's that?'

'Whether Mrs H will make Christmas dinner if we ask her nicely enough,' Sherlock replied, and grinned.

* * *

 **The next update will be this Wednesday, with a little story set at Bart's. I hope you'll join me there!**


	2. 1st December

**Wednesday, 1st December, 2010**

There was something different about the lab.

He didn't notice it at first, which was surprising for Sherlock, but that was probably because he wasn't concentrating. It was only when he first looked up from his microscope, blinking a little, that he saw the spangle of red, green and gold that adorned the back wall.

Someone had put up Christmas decorations in the lab, in his lab, and he knew exactly who it was. For one thing, she was standing in a corner looking furtively in his direction and blushing, like she already regretted it.

'You've re-decorated,' Sherlock said, pursing his lips a little, but not letting a hint of emotion shade his comment.

Molly Hooper just trembled a bit and began to gather up her papers.

'Where are you going?' asked Sherlock without looking up. He was squinting at something on a slide, something that looked rather like blood.

'Just... grabbing a cup of tea... did you want one?...'

'Molly.'

She started.

'Black, two sugars...' Sherlock murmured. Then, after a moment: 'And the Christmas decorations can stay.'

Molly's brow furrowed violently. 'You were such a Grinch about them last year.'

Sherlock tried, briefly, to remember last year. He had probably erased such a mundane thing from his memory. 'I was?'

'You complained about them for about three days straight and then tore them down when I didn't remove them.' Molly smiled vaguely. Her hand went absently back to the papers that she had been about to take from the room.

'I did? Yes, that sounds about right,' Sherlock considered, but his voice was quieter than usual, and he seemed to be contemplating something. He ran his eyes properly over the display. It consisted of a large green wreath in the centre, and some kind of metallic chain radiating from it to the edges of the room; the opposite wall had been bedecked with fairy-lights that hadn't yet been turned on. It was a more extravagant set-up even than last year's. Evidently it was Molly's idea of a protest. 'Well, I haven't the energy to be a Grinch this year – what is a Grinch, anyway?'

'It's – a character.' It didn't surprise Molly that Sherlock knew nothing about Dr Seuss books. 'Who hates Christmas.'

'I wouldn't say I _hated_ Christmas,' Sherlock replied. 'I am merely indifferent to it.'

'That's an improvement on last year as well.' Molly smiled a little. 'Sherlock, you've changed. Is it John?'

This final statement, thrown bravely into the conversation, disorientated Sherlock a little. He had returned to adjusting his microscope; now his hand slipped from the focus. A half-smile that contained not a hint of humour began to dance about his lips.

'Does it matter if it is?'

'He's made you more, more – normal,' Molly floundered. She bit her lip, immediately regretting the comment.

Sherlock blinked. 'Perhaps.'

'More _human_. That's the word.'

Sherlock shot a glance towards her brief grin. Then, to her immense surprise, he too smiled – one of those thin-lipped smiles that he was accustomed to, but a real smile nonetheless, one that just about reached his eyes. A smile of genuine good humour.

'Which isn't to say that you were, well, alien last year, or a bacterium or –' Molly hesitated. 'Just... you're different. Nicer. More... open.' Her cheeks were going alarmingly pink, and, realising this, she halted her tongue and continued with: 'What I mean to say, Sherlock, is merry Christmas.'

And with that she started for the door.

'Molly,' said Sherlock.

She turned.

'It's only the first of December,' Sherlock chastised her. She chuckled. 'But merry Christmas anyway.'

And they were both smiling as she went from the room.

* * *

 **The next update will be this weekend. I hope you'll join me (and the Baker Street gang) for some Christmas-tree-related fun...**


	3. 2nd Advent weekend

**I've had the most dreadful cold this week, so it's apt that this chapter should feature Sherlock and John getting colds. Not that I'm taking it out on them or anything.**

* * *

 **Saturday, 4th December, 2010**

* * *

Winter had barely begun when John returned home with a cold one evening. It was an unfortunately of being a doctor that you tended to be exposed to all sorts of horrid illnesses, and John was actually quite relieved that he had caught nothing more than one of those annoying ones that makes you feel pathetic because you can't do much without incurring a headache, or last more than a couple of minutes without having to dive for a handkerchief.

As soon as Sherlock noticed that his friend was suffering, he tried to keep out of his way, but the very fact that they shared a flat meant that he eventually caught it. He tried to hide it at first, the fact that his brain was going more sluggishly than usual. But when John, himself almost entirely cured, came down to breakfast one morning to find Sherlock huddled in his dressing-gown and force-feeding himself alternate spoonfuls of cornflakes and paracetomol, he knew that his friend shouldn't be up, and told him so.

He just smiled wanly, blew his nose (very delicately – John couldn't recall Sherlock ever sneezing before, and so was surprised to hear a high-pitched squeaky sort of sneeze come from the detective), and said that John was being ridiculous.

'No, Sherlock,' John said, taking the paracetomol away before he overdosed on it, 'I've had this cold. I know what it's like. You should go back to bed.'

'You told me we were doing things today.'

'Yes – I thought we could put the tree up. But that can wait.'

Sherlock's eyes widened a little, almost imperceptibly. 'No, it can't. You want the tree up. Today's about the only chance we'll get. What if a case comes up this week?'

John poured out his own cereal, all the while watching him carefully. 'If you've still got this cold and a case comes up, I'll deal with it. You shouldn't tax yourself. You should be in bed.'

'You, deal with my cases?'

'I know your system,' John shrugged. 'You generally reject most of them anyway. I'll refer anything interesting to you, if you insist. Or Scotland Yard.'

'Not them,' muttered Sherlock, sneezing disparagingly. 'That's the whole point of me. To deal with things Scotland Yard are too dim for.'

John sighed. Sherlock might have been the most irritating bighead, but a lot of the time, including on this occasion, he was right. Important cases that only he could solve did come up, and more frequently than he liked sometimes. They wouldn't wait for his cold to disappear. 'Very well. We'll put the tree up today, if you're insisting.' His eyes flashed a little mischievously towards his friend. 'Does that mean you actually _want_ to put it up? Are you getting into the whole Christmas thing already?'

'No,' said Sherlock rather too quickly, and did not say anything more until he had finished his breakfast.

* * *

Sherlock was a striking man at most times, tall, indomitable, confident. But when ill he didn't cut quite such a dash, and John was almost amused to see him wandering around in his dressing-gown with watery eyes and a nose bright enough to direct aeroplanes, if only because it seemed to have toned down that annoying self-confidence that bordered on narcissism.

John hadn't had a Christmas tree for a few years now, and he'd never bothered going out for a real one, instead dragging into 221B a box containing a cheap and cheerful plastic one with a heavy stand that he repeatedly dropped on his foot before getting it in the right place. And when it was in what he thought was the right place, Sherlock complained that it would disrupt the light patterns in the room, and so he had to move it right into the corner, where it would be very difficult to decorate, but at least Sherlock was satisfied.

Once the tree was set up, there was a knock at the door; John called out: 'Come in.'

Mrs Hudson came in then, carrying a tray on which she had balanced three cups of tea; she smiled as she caught sight of the tree.

'Ooh, are you decorating?' she asked. 'I don't suppose you need an extra pair of hands?'

'That would be quite useful, actually, if you don't mind,' John said.

'And I have some spare decorations if you need any,' Mrs Hudson added, putting down the tea on the table. Sherlock was immediately drawn to it, and as he drained almost an entire mug in one go he noticed that Mrs Hudson was staring at him.

John shrugged. 'Sherlock's supposed to be ill, but he wanted to decorate the tree,' he told their landlady, and picked up his own mug of tea. 'What were you saying about spare decorations?'

It transpired that Mrs Hudson had already decorated her own tree – and rather well – but that she had several boxes of baubles and tinsel left over: when you got to be her age, you found that you had sort of accumulated more of everything than you would ever need. Therefore John and Sherlock found themselves provisioned with not only the things that John had bought the previous day (a couple of boxes of baubles, two lengths of tinsel, and some rather garish fairy lights), but also a few tins of decorations that looked as if they were almost as old as Mrs Hudson.

John hadn't decked a tree in a long while; nor had Sherlock, but that didn't prevent the detective from showing a profound skill in making it look pretty. His long arms were useful for wrapping the tinsel and fairy lights around the back of the tree, and furthermore he didn't seem to protest at doing this, even looking vaguely cheerful at the prospect.

'You're actually enjoying this, aren't you,' John grinned.

Sherlock glared at him.

'Heavens, dear,' Mrs Hudson said, 'you _must_ be ill.'

When the decorations were all on the tree, they all three of them stood back, admiring their handiwork. Sherlock leaned forwards and moved a bauble about an inch to the left ("it's symmetrical now"), and looked surprisingly satisfied.

They gave Sherlock the honour of turning on the lights ("It's like the Regent Street illuminations," said Mrs Hudson, clapping her hands in delight) and beamed at each other when at last the room was illuminated by the bright, somewhat randomly-coloured little bulbs. It felt extremely Christmassy already: all that remained was for John to put up a Christmas card holder for those cards that had already arrived, sent by friends who were either overseas or just very organised. Mrs Hudson suggested that they have some mulled wine to celebrate: she had for some reason acquired numerous bottles of the stuff, and at once put a generous amount in a pan to heat up, filling the room with the warm scent of cinnamon and cloves.

They drank probably more than they ought to have done, and even Sherlock, who wasn't one for getting drunk – alcohol was the one drug that didn't much seem to tempt him, because, far from stimulating his brain, it just scrambled his precious thought processes – drank a glass or two, and seemed to enjoy it. After he had finished he ran a napkin across his lips, and smiled across at the other two.

John stared at him. 'God, Sherlock, you can't be drunk after two glasses.'

Sherlock returned this confused stare. 'Just because I'm smiling doesn't mean I'm drunk.'

'No, it's just... you look relaxed, and you're never relaxed. You're smiling. You're not complaining of boredom... What's wrong with you? Is it because you're ill?' John furrowed his brow, unsure of what exactly had happened to his friend today. He had been acting strangely even before the mulled wine.

'My dear John,' said Mrs Hudson with a beaming smile, 'it's just the Christmas spirit. It's got to him.'

'There's no such thing as a _Christmas spirit_ ,' Sherlock said.

'Except maybe this mulled wine,' grinned John. 'But no – Mrs H, you're probably right. Sherlock's been weird ever since the carol-concert. I think he likes Christmas more than he might admit.'

Sherlock just glared at him, but it was a good-natured and very slightly tipsy glare, and suddenly all three of them burst out laughing for almost no reason whatsoever.

* * *

 **Next weekend we're out Christmas shopping! Have you got yours done yet? No, nor have I. Ah well, there's still plenty of time...**


	4. 3rd Advent weekend

**Saturday, 11th December, 2010**

* * *

John Watson had often said that he must be the most long-suffering of mortals to be able to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. Body parts in the fridge? He was used to it now. Bullet holes in the wall? He could handle it. Sherlock sulking for days on end because he was stuck on a case? That got annoying, but he had learnt to ignore it.

He had to admit that there were some things that he had to complain about. Like the time he came home to find someone's respiratory system on the kitchen counter. Like the time he put his hands in his coat pockets to find that Sherlock had borrowed said coat without asking and had managed to fill it with things you'd rather not put your hands into. Like the many, many times Sherlock wasn't even on a case and still insisted on torturing his violin.

He was doing it now, scratching and scraping, producing noises that John had previously thought it impossible to make with a violin, and a Stradivarius too: a genuine Strad, and Sherlock Holmes used it to make strangled cat impressions.

It was in his lap; he was leaning back, his bow in his left hand – his _wrong_ hand – oblivious to the racket he was making. But scarcely had John entered the room when his ears seemed to prick up, and, almost faster than he could blink, his bow passed to his right hand, and the amateur became the genius. The disjointed melodies of Saint-Saens's _Danse macabre_ filled the room, played utterly splendidly, as if a different person had taken up the bow. But no – Sherlock Holmes, who had spent the past half hour sounding like a beginner, had become in barely a second a maestro.

The _Danse_ was very much Sherlock's sort of piece: quirky and more than a little disturbing. He let the final notes fade into nothing; then his bow leapt from the strings, and his eyes snapped open, his gaze falling on John, who was still in the doorway.

'Ah, John,' he said in a measured tone. 'I hope I didn't disturb you too much.' John gritted his teeth. 'Where are you dragging me today?'

This additional comment, spoken in a cheerfully disgusted voice, startled John a little. He had been just about to put his shoes on, but he had given no indication of that to Sherlock.

'Well,' he said. 'Well, I was planning on going Christmas shopping. I didn't think you'd want to come.'

Sherlock blushed very faintly. 'I don't. I just assumed you would take me anyway.'

'You can come, if you want,' said John with a bemused shrug. 'I supposed you might want to buy presents for people.'

'That is the traditional thing to do, yes.'

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock then put his violin down and his coat on, followed by his shoes and scarf, and declared that he was ready to go.

'Let's go then,' John shrugged, and they set off.

* * *

Sherlock made it very clear that he wouldn't buy people chocolates or flowers or biscuits or anything "useless" like that. 'Everyone's IQs are low enough already. If we get them books their intelligence might at least reach an adequate level.' Therefore John found himself being dragged round Waterstones and WH Smith's* and various independent bookshops, staring at the reference sections until he feared he might dream about dictionaries.

At one point Sherlock pushed a thesaurus under his nose, suggesting that he find some interesting words to say whenever he felt like re-using the same old swear words, and even offered to buy John the heaviest edition of the best thesaurus, but John swatted the offending book away good-naturedly.

'Don't buy my present when I'm there, silly,' he said with a small smile. 'I want it to be a surprise.'

Sherlock just looked a bit puzzled. After years of accurately guessing every single present he had received, it was strange to hear that presents were supposed to be surprises. 'Very well.'

For a moment John panicked, worried that Sherlock would come back and get him the damned thesaurus, but he hoped that his friend wouldn't be that tactless.

'We should get this for Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said at length, showing John a book about indoor gardening.

'Mrs H? Gardening?' John said incredulously.

Sherlock just smiled in his particular way that meant he had made some deduction that he assumed to be obvious. 'Maybe the "For Dummies" one as well then.'

'Sherlock, that's not nice,' John replied, fighting back a smile.

Sherlock was about to reply, but suddenly they heard a voice behind them that they recognised.

'Sherlock! I've never seen you in town before.'

'Hullo, Molly,' John said, turning.

Molly smiled and nibbled her lip a little. 'Are you buying Christmas presents?'

'So it seems,' Sherlock said, raising one eyebrow. 'We haven't actually _bought_ any yet. John keeps dithering and wondering whether things will be cheaper in another shop, or whether people will actually appreciate what we've got them. I won't be surprised if we visit every shop in London.'

'Well, Mrs Hudson will appreciate that,' Molly pointed out, indicating the book that Sherlock was still holding. 'She was telling me about how she secretly loves gardening... or maybe she just really fancies Alan Titchmarsh**, one of those.'

John burst out laughing at this comment. 'I might have guessed... Oh, Molly, you don't happen to have a Christmas list?'

Molly chuckled. It was fairly obvious from this statement that John had no idea what to get her. 'No. I don't really mind. I mean, I like chocolate...' Her smile spread further than she had intended it to, as she caught John eying a selection of sweets and things on sale near the checkouts. 'But I don't mind. Really.'

'Chocolates make terrible presents,' Sherlock cut in. 'They are entirely pointless and don't last very long. They also imply that the giver hasn't thought very much about the gift –'

'Sherlock,' scolded John.

'He's just resentful about the time his aunt gave him chocolates instead of the microscope he wanted,' grinned Molly. 'He was eight. Talk about holding grudges.'

Sherlock glared at her. He couldn't even recall telling her this snippet of information. It worried him that he seemed to give away far too much of his private life when he was at Bart's.

'Anyway,' said Molly, a little flustered by Sherlock's stern expression, 'if we're dropping hints, there _was_ a book I quite liked the look of, actually...'

She then dragged John off to the fiction section, chatting all the while about what presents she was getting other people, and trying to ask John in a sideways sort of fashion what he might want for Christmas. Sherlock watched them, and, at very great length, followed.

* * *

Later that afternoon, they had said goodbye to Molly, and were both of them clutching several bags. Their shopping trip had (against all odds, John thought, considering what Sherlock was like – it actually turned out that he had already organised a couple of presents) been a success. It was already close to nightfall, and the streets were illuminated by the hazy twilight and by the bright twinkling lights of window displays and Christmas decorations. London wasn't going to calm down any time soon. Everyone else had had the same idea about Christmas shopping, which was partly why they had taken so long, and the place was full of people still.

'So we've got Molly's, Mrs H's, Mike's...' John trailed off, counting on his fingers. 'Almost everyone's, in fact.'

'Except each other's,' Sherlock pointed out.

'Ooh,' said John. He had completely forgotten that very important point. 'Yes. Good point. But we can't buy them when we're together like this.'

'Then we'll split up,' replied Sherlock.

John grinned and nodded, and headed off rather too obviously towards a music shop. After a moment, Sherlock, glancing at the substandard violin in the window (he considered most violins to be substandard, his being a genuine Stradivarius) went off in the opposite direction.

* * *

The flat seemed quiet without John in it, as it ever did: and Sherlock had to admit that he didn't necessarily consider that to be a bad thing. It was certainly peaceful, and a very good thinking-atmosphere. Which was good at this particular time, because he needed to think.

With a glance towards the door, as if thinking that John might burst through it, he crossed to his desk, slid a key into the bottom drawer, and extracted a slim book of manuscript-paper. He flipped the cover over. The first page was already covered with writing, mostly in a soft pencil. The title, which was in the scrawl that Sherlock used when he couldn't be bothered to write legibly, could just be made out as "For John".

He walked slowly over to his armchair and sat in it. His pencil lay on the coffee-table, and he picked it up, twirling it between his fingers; then, very decidedly, he flipped over to a new page and began to write.

* * *

*Waterstones is a chain of bookshops in Britain. WH Smith's is also a widespread chain store.

**Famous British gardening expert

* * *

 **Just to inform you that there will be a new chapter up tomorrow! This weekend seems very busy for the folk in Baker Street. Sunday will be spent discussing dinner-guests.**


	5. 3rd Sunday in Advent

**Sunday, 12th December, 2010**

It was halfway through Advent, and things were getting decidedly Christmassy. Every time John turned on the radio, Christmas music blasted out into the flat. The Christmas lights outside would shine into the room if the curtains weren't properly closed. And on one occasion in the late evening the sound of drunks slurring carols drifted up from the street.

And in 221B, the decorations seemed to get brighter by the day, and with each passing day a new handful of cards went up. To top it all off, John had bought a very cheesy Christmas jumper and insisted on wearing it at every opportunity.

On this particular Sunday, the jumper-clad doctor had sunk into his armchair, and was lazily surveying the room; at length he turned to his friend, who was similarly making himself comfortable in his chair, and who looked ready to fall asleep.

'We need to decide who we're going to invite round for Christmas dinner,' said John, glancing towards the kitchen. He was very conscious of the fact that it was rather small. At the same time, he quite wanted a small sort of do, with a few close friends. 'I asked Mrs H about making dinner – she said she's quite happy to: she was going to anyway, so –'

'Can it not be just us three?' Sherlock asked then.

'That's not the point of Christmas,' John replied. 'I was thinking I might see if Mike wants to come over – and we could ask Molly; I'm sure she'd love to come, I think she usually does Christmas on her own – and then you could invite your brother –'

'Mycroft?' said Sherlock incredulously, scoffing. 'John, you've met Mycroft. Surely you don't think –'

'Sherlock, it's _Christmas_ ,' countered John, as if that explained everything. 'And he's your brother, and you care about each other really – he'd probably appreciate you inviting him round. Does he normally – well, _do_ Christmas dinner?'

'I haven't the least idea,' said Sherlock vaguely.

John paused for a moment. His eyes fell on the small smattering of Christmas cards that already bedecked the holder he had hung next to the door. 'What about your parents?'

'What about my parents?' Sherlock asked defensively.

'Well... I know you _have_ parents...'

'No,' said Sherlock, very definitely. 'Anyway, they'll be doing their own dinner. Mycroft and I are usually invited. I rarely go.'

' _Sher_ lock – that's mean!' cried John. Then, after a moment: 'I mean... are they, you know, nice people?'

'They're normal,' said Sherlock, and the way he said it made it sound like the worst of all insults.

'Then why can't they come round? I'd quite like to meet them.'

Sherlock hesitated for a long while. Then: 'I'm not suggesting that you invite _your_ family. So why must mine come?'

John had to concede that he had a very good point. 'All right, not your parents, then. If you think they won't mind...'

'They won't have to.'

John just raised one eyebrow and dropped the subject.

'So – Mike, then, if he can make it – Molly – us three – Mycroft maybe – that's six, I think, so far. I'm not sure we can fit many more in the flat.'

'We'll be able to fit even fewer, after everyone's stuffed themselves with Christmas dinner,' Sherlock replied drily.

John grinned. 'Quite. Anyway, I can't think of anyone else. That's sorted then... We're nearly there with this whole Christmas business. We're doing pretty well.'

'We are,' said Sherlock in an almost admiring tone. His gaze travelled once more around the room. 'I might even be able to tolerate this Christmas.'

'Well, that's a good thing and a half, at any rate,' said John laughing, and went to grab a cup of tea and a mince pie.

* * *

 **We're off to a certain café with an old friend next week...**


	6. 4th Advent weekend

**Saturday, 18th December, 2010**

* * *

When Sherlock was on a case, he tended not to think of anything but, meaning that meals, everyday tasks and even sleeping were abandoned as he thought on the details of the case. When he was not on a case, however, his boredom made him seek stimulation in anything and everything, meaning that when he wasn't complaining of such boredom, he was taking an uncharacteristic interest in every single thing that John did, in the hope of something inspiring him.

Today John seemed to be time-wasting online – the laptop was facing away from him, but it was evident from John's relaxed position, infrequent and irregular mouse-clicks, and the occasional chuckle, that he wasn't doing anything of use. He was probably reading back through his blog. He did that sometimes. He was a bit too proud of his blog, considering, in Sherlock's opinion at least, it wasn't written very well at all.

Just then John looked up from the computer with a small smile on his face, and turned to Sherlock, who had now lost himself somewhere in the depths of his mind palace and was entirely oblivious to all around him. Feeling a little guilty about waking him from what was nothing short of an exceptionally good dream, judging by his facial expression, John said, 'There's a message for you on the blog. An old friend, he claims.'

'Victor Trevor?' he asked without opening his eyes.

John glanced back at the screen, and didn't ask how he had known. 'Yes.'

He opened his eyes and stood, going to investigate. At the bottom of John's latest post, a mundane one as not much had happened lately, was a somewhat unrelated message that read: _Hello! My name's Victor Trevor and I'm an old friend of Sherlock's. We lost touch and I'm so glad I've managed to find him again. Can you tell him I'm in London? We could meet up if he wants? (I know he isn't that sort of person but he can be persuaded.) If not, tell him Happy Christmas from me. Thanks, VT :-)_

Sherlock read through the message and groaned almost inaudibly. 'Tell him no.'

'Don't you like him? He says he's your friend.'

'Acquaintance,' said Sherlock quickly. 'From university. We... we got on, I suppose.' It seemed to pain him slightly to say that.

'So... why don't you want to meet up?'

'I don't _do_ meeting up,' Sherlock grimaced. 'Come on, John, you know me.'

John raised one eyebrow. He definitely _did_ know him. And no, he wasn't one for meeting up with people. Not unless they had done something illegal. 'You might like it,' he said at last, hesitantly. 'Being normal, I mean.'

'God, John. How many times? Normality is boring.'

' _Sherlock_... You sound like a child about to have a tantrum.'

He looked a little ashamed, which surprised John, and sat up in his seat. 'But what am I supposed to _do_ at this "meeting up"? Make small talk and reminisce?' A dash of genuine fear seemed to tint his voice then.

'Well...' He could hardly lie to Sherlock. He always knew if John was lying. 'Yes.'

'Oh, God.'

'But he was your friend... acquaintance. Do whatever you did when you hung out at uni. Is it really that difficult?'

'Yes!' Sherlock burst out. Then: 'Maybe. Probably.'

John just raised one eyebrow at him. 'He seems nice enough. I'll reply, tell him you want to meet up.'

Sherlock just sat there silently fuming whilst John replied to the message; and afterwards he didn't say a word, but merely looked annoyed. John wondered if perhaps he had made a terrible mistake, but decided that it would be good for Sherlock to talk with this Victor Trevor person. He hadn't known he had had uni friends.

Therefore he sent off this reply, and waited with somewhat bated breath to see what chain of events would follow.

* * *

Sherlock and John had never set foot in Speedy's Café. It is a curious phenomenon that one often fails to notice those things that are right in front of one, and so, after almost an entire year of not noticing the little cafeteria next door to 221 Baker Street, they had decided that they ought to see what it was like. Well. John had decided to see what it was like. Sherlock had been once again dragged unceremoniously out of his armchair, and set foot very reluctantly inside the establishment.

'Shall we grab –' John had been scouring the drinks menu, but suddenly found his eye drawn by a small poster below the sandwiches board. He squinted, and quietly drew Sherlock's attention to it, hiding his surprise with some difficulty.

Sherlock stared at it. 'The – Oh God.'

It was evidently a fairly new poster, and featured the "Café Special", which they had, for whatever reason, named the "Sherlock Wrap".*

'You're famous,' grinned John with a chuckle. 'Anyway, let's get some drinks. Victor Trevor isn't here already, is he?'

Sherlock shook his head, still staring at his name on the poster, attached rather oddly to a chicken and bacon wrap. Eventually John had to pull him over towards a table, and a minute later they were sipping distractedly at their drinks, looking towards the door and inspecting everyone who seemed as if they might come in.

'We should go back home,' Sherlock murmured at length.

'Sherlock, we've been here five minutes,' John said. 'And anyway, I feel as if this Victor Trevor person has a tendency to be late for things.'

'How can you know that?' said Sherlock, furrowing his brow. John had been right, more right than he usually was, and he hadn't even met the man.

'Just guessing,' shrugged John; and it was at that point that Victor Trevor came in.

John had never seen him before, and Sherlock hadn't seen him in quite a few years now, but by his immediate glance and hurried walk towards their table, they both knew at once that this was him. The man was normal-looking, if that is a valid description: his hair was just beginning to creep back from his brow, and his eyes were bright and only a little naïve.

'Sherlock, you've got a wrap,' he grinned.

'I know,' replied Sherlock darkly.

Victor Trevor grinned some more, in a friendly fashion that Sherlock did not imitate; then he held out his hand to the two men.

'You must be John Watson,' he said. 'And Sherlock – it's great to see you again. Really it is. I hope you're well?'

Sherlock scarcely had time to reply before Victor went to order a coffee; he returned a minute later sipping it, and swung into an empty chair. At length, setting it down, he said:

'Merry Christmas, you two. I suppose it's a bit early, but – have you seen the Regent Street illuminations this year? They switched them on way back in October! Do you know, Christmas gets earlier and earlier each year, doesn't it.' This random tirade, an expulsion of his thoughts, seemed to dismay Sherlock greatly; John meanwhile replied in a similarly cheerful fashion.

'Yeah, you're right, it does... I saw Advent calendars for sale in September,' he commented. 'We haven't been down to Regent Street though. Sherlock doesn't much like crowds, and they're not really my cup of tea either.'

Sherlock looked quietly exasperated. The two other men continued this conversation composed entirely of small talk, whilst the detective looked on, bored already. Anyone looking on from the outside would have thought that it was Victor and John who were old friends, not Victor and Sherlock. That is, until Victor decided to extract himself from the conversation and address Sherlock.

'Oh, gosh! Sorry! I almost forgot you were here. How are you?'

'Fine,' said Sherlock curtly.

'Still your same old self,' Victor chuckled. It was a comment rather than a question.

'Did you expect me to change?' Sherlock replied.

Victor grinned lopsidedly.

'I never realised Sherlock had uni friends,' John told Victor. 'I don't know half as much as I ought to about him, to be honest – he's very secretive.' He laughed, and shrugged. 'It's none of my business really. But it's nice to know he interacted with _someone_ in university.'

'If you can call it interaction,' laughed Victor. 'Sherlock was in Chemistry; I was in History. We just happened to be in the same college. Why was it we met? – ah, of course, I remember, it was when I was dog-walking for extra money and the dog I was walking happened to attack Sherlock. I felt terrible, of course –'

'And he came to visit me as often as possible while my leg was healing, which was damned annoying,' Sherlock muttered, but good-naturedly.

'And then I invited him home for a week in the winter hols, and he solved a mystery involving my dad's past**, and completely overturned my family life, which was nice of him.' He laughed. 'It was fine though. Things were better after that, actually. Anyway, Sherlock and I were sort-of friends.'

'Acquaintances, you mean,' said John and Sherlock at precisely the same moment. The three of them smiled a little.

'Anyway, someone showed me your blog the other day,' Victor continued, addressing John, 'and – well, Sherlock's not a common name, is it? I realised it was him and wondered if he wanted to get in touch. For old time's sake.'

Sherlock just shot him a glance of which the meaning was undecipherable.

'And it turns out you're famous!' Victor continued. 'I remember you wanting to be a detective.'

'You suggested it,' Sherlock reminded him, in an unusually good-natured fashion.

'I didn't expect it to take off like this,' grinned Victor. 'You've even got a wrap!'

'Will you stop going on about my wrap!' said Sherlock, a little exasperated – but the way he said _my_ hinted to John that he wasn't half as annoyed as he pretended to be. Indeed perhaps he was a little proud.

'What do you do? Are you a private detective, or –'

'Consulting detective,' Sherlock said crisply.

'He invented the job,' John said with a smile.

'And you... tag along sometimes?' Victor directed this question at John.

'I help him when I can,' John shrugged. 'It's a bit like being the stupid sidekick in a film, but, you know...'

'Oh, I'm sure you're _great_ ,' Victor cut in. 'I was reading your blog... it's so interesting, what you two get up to. I'm sure I wouldn't be able to do it.'

John sipped from his drink. 'What is it you do?'

'Researcher at the British Museum,' Sherlock said at once, 'and occasional lecturer at – UCL?'***

'King's,'*** Victor corrected him, grinning. Sherlock cursed under his breath, but Victor didn't notice. 'Still brilliant as ever, Sherlock.' Then, turning to John: 'He used to regale us with his deductions at university. He was famous for them even then.'

John nodded. 'Yes, I've met someone else who went to university with you two. Sebastian? Yes, Sebastian Wilkes.'

'Oh, God.' Victor laughed. 'What's he up to now? Still up to his usual tricks?'

'He's a banker,' said Sherlock.

Victor grinned. 'Perfect. Perfect. Oh! Was that to do with the Blind Banker case?' John and Sherlock nodded. 'Oh, I wish I'd kept in touch with more people from Oxford. I know it's a bit of an old boys' network sort of thing, but... I'm glad you've succeeded in life, Sherlock.'

'It took a while,' Sherlock replied.

'How's your brother? Still think he runs the country?'

'He _does_ run the country,' said Sherlock indignantly.

Victor just smiled and said that he was going to grab another cup of coffee, and did anyone else want anything? They didn't, and so he went off to the counter, and John leaned over the table.

'See, it's not so bad, is it?' he said in a low voice.

Sherlock just grumbled a bit. 'I suppose not... Why are you smiling?'

'You're making small talk,' John grinned. 'I didn't think you _did_ small talk.'

'Small talk? It's not small talk. It's big talk, when you're talking about Mycroft and Seb Wilkes. In more ways than one,' Sherlock replied with a twinkle in his eye.

When Victor returned with his second drink, he found both Sherlock and John grinning from ear to ear, trying to stop themselves from laughing too loudly.

'You're actually smiling,' Victor said happily, addressing Sherlock.

'You don't have to sound so surprised,' Sherlock replied.

It seemed however that he had been encouraged by the success of his joke, and now fell into much easier conversation. John and Victor led it for the most part, but Sherlock was far from silent, and the afternoon seemed to fly past. At very great length, Victor checked his watch, and noticed that the staff seemed to be getting ready to pack up; therefore he stood, and apologised, but he really had to go.

'Anyway, merry Christmas, you two,' he grinned, pulling his scarf tight around his neck, in such a recognisable fashion that John wondered if he had copied it off Sherlock (or indeed the other way round).

'Merry Christmas,' replied John in turn.

'Merry Christmas, Trevor,' Sherlock said, and to John's amazement, he took Victor's hand and shook it warmly. Victor clapped him on the back, grinned, and walked off onto the twilit street.

'We should be getting back,' John said at length. 'Grab tea, and then – I think Mrs H wanted us to hoover the lounge –' He paused. 'What shall we have for tea?'

'There isn't anything in the fridge,' Sherlock informed him.

'I know. It'll have to be a takeaway or a trip to –' John thought for a moment, and then chuckled. 'I've got it. Let's try the Sherlock Wraps.'

'John –'

'C'mon, Sherlock, you've got to try one.'

'John, I don't even _like_ tortillas –'

'When did you last eat a tortilla?'

'All right, so I've never actually eaten a tortilla wrap...'

'All the more reason to now,' said John, marching Sherlock up to the counter with a grin still spreading across his face.

* * *

Sherlock had to admit that "his" wraps weren't bad. He seemed more than a little proud of them, actually. Maybe he wasn't so happy when John posted a picture of him eating one on the blog, but to be perfectly honest, it was Christmas, and they were friends, and really, he had nothing to complain about.

But in return for this gesture, as John found when next he went to Speedy's, Sherlock seemed to have made a sneaky suggestion to the staff. Therefore when John looked at the board, his eyes travelling automatically to the Sherlock Wrap, he found that another poster had been put up, advertising the new "Watson Wrap"****. Rolling his eyes, John ordered three, one each for the inhabitants of 221 Baker Street. It was Christmas, after all.

* * *

*Speedy's Café, as I found out, does in fact exist, so when I was last in London I couldn't resist a brief visit. I shouldn't have been surprised to find that they sell a "Sherlock Wrap", seeing as they mostly seem to serve fans of the show.

**See Conan Doyle's _The Adventure of the Gloria Scott_ for the story behind this brief narration.

***UCL = University College London. King's = King's College London.

****These actually exist too!

* * *

 **One more week! Next update will be Christmas Eve, and once again Sherlock and John will be unceremoniously dragged out of Baker Street for the sake of one of their friends.**


	7. Christmas Eve

**Christmas Eve, 2010**

* * *

It was going to be a white Christmas.

Snowflakes eddied through the air, tumbling, swirling, at last coming to rest on the damp pavement and on the warm coats of those who hurried homewards, to the hot drinks and fires that awaited them there; and these people would then watch from the window and smile at the very notion that it was snowing on Christmas Eve. If nothing else, it would make the afternoon walk on Christmas Day just a little bit more bracing, and delight the children who had become bored with their assorted gadgets and books and toys.

John smiled at the memory as he stood at the window of 221B Baker Street. He had put his wet socks on the radiator to dry and they were lending the room a musty damp smell – not an unpleasant aroma, if he was honest, and mingled with the smell of the tea that wafted from his cup it was quite marvellous.

Though it often did not seem that way, he had always liked Christmas, or at least, he enjoyed the nostalgia and memories that it aroused. He liked that everyone seemed happy around Christmas. It calmed his nerves, which was a relief and a half for one so busy: being a doctor at Christmas was not easy, as people seemed to fall ill in droves as winter approached and brought with it chill winds and damp clouds. But it was the twenty-fourth of December at last, and he was home, and he was wearing a tatty Christmas jumper. It was the first Christmas Eve in a long while on which he had felt this happy.

Sherlock, too, seemed rather more relaxed than usual, and was leaning back in his armchair, his eyelashes fluttering, as if he was about to go to sleep.

'We should be setting off,' John said distractedly, pushing himself away from the window-ledge, and turning to his friend. He glanced at his watch as if for effect, and then went to get his coat.

'Where are we going?' asked Sherlock.

'You _know_ where we're going,' John said as he put his coat on.

Sherlock just continued to stare at him in a mock-naïve fashion.

'The nativity,' John explained, exasperated. 'I told you about it a few days ago. Don't look so _surprised_ , Sherlock. I know you knew about it.'

'I'm not going,' said Sherlock at once.

'Yes, you are.'

'A _nativity_ , John. That's so childish. And boring.'

'Look, I've said we're going. Lestrade's children are in it.'

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

'Well,' John considered, 'one's in the chorus and the other's the back end of the donkey, but still. We went to the carol-service for Mrs Hudson. It isn't that much effort to go and see a nativity for Lestrade.'

Sherlock groaned and got up, defeated once again by John's hard, determined glare.

* * *

A nativity play put on by small children is one of those things that only really appeals to doting parents. John and Sherlock were not, of course, doting parents, and so neither was particularly excited by the prospect of watching youngsters flap around in tea-towels and duvets, but it was the thought that counted, and anyway there was a mildly enticing prospect of mince pies and mulled wine afterwards.

The room, which was the hall of a local school, was stacked with the doting parent type that they had envisaged; a lot were wearing Christmas jumpers whose cheesiness rivalled John's, and some had donned reindeer antlers for some reason unknown to man. Sherlock and John sought out Lestrade in the crowd, and went to sit next to him, because he was the only one there whom they knew.

John struck up a mildly awkward conversation with the detective inspector whilst they waited for the play to start; after a minute he turned to Sherlock, who was staring disinterestedly into the middle distance. After a while the detective murmured something like _Messy divorce, only come to see child, child most likely playing Mary_.

'Stop deducing mean things about the congregation,' John muttered.

'Leave him to it,' Lestrade commented unexpectedly. 'It's probably the most fun he'll have all evening.'

At very great length there was a general hush, and a small and very pompous-looking child strode to the front of the hall and began to introduce the play. She spoke too fast but her words were just about comprehensible.

'Her parents are on the school governing body,' Sherlock deduced, speaking a little too loudly. 'She got the part out of favouritism.'

'Her parents,' whispered Lestrade, 'are good friends with Sally Donovan, so keep your voice down.'

Sherlock glared a little.

The nativity continued in the usual fashion, with lines forgotten here and there, precocious talent mixed with children who really didn't want to be there, and a number of songs, sang only half-heartedly by the gathered chorus. At last the ordeal was over, and the children all ran into the audience and clung to their respective parents. Lestrade was at once almost bowled over by a small boy and a smaller girl: the former had wriggled free of his donkey costume, and the latter was still humming the songs under her breath.

Sherlock had taken a step backwards, and John now turned to him, smiling a little. 'What's wrong?'

'I don't know what to do with small children,' he admitted in a small voice.

It was unfortunate for him, then, that the small girl then ran up to him and demanded to know who he was. He introduced himself and tried to ignore her, but she kept asking him things – what was he doing here, was he Daddy's friend, even why his hair was curly – before clinging onto the fabric of his trousers and refusing to let go. Sherlock stared a little. He was sure he himself had been a quiet and even tolerable five-year-old.

'You're supposed to say she was good in the nativity,' John said after a moment, not making any attempt to detach her.

'You were good in the nativity,' Sherlock said obediently.

'Sherlock said I was good in the nativity!' she cried, looking delighted, and went to torture her father instead. 'Can we get mini spies?'

'Mince pies,' Lestrade corrected her, grinning. 'All right,' and he began to dig in his pocket for some money for donations. 'Sherlock – John – I'll see you after Christmas, then.'

'Yes... merry Christmas, Greg,' said John, shaking his hand warmly.

Lestrade returned his greeting, and then turned to Sherlock, who started a little, and at last said: 'Merry Christmas... Graham.'

John flashed a warning glance at him. Sherlock's brow furrowed.

'George,' he corrected himself after a moment. Lestrade looked amused. John looked exasperated.

'Anyway, merry Christmas, both of you,' Lestrade smiled, and went off with his children, who were dragging him over to the other side of the hall.

'Well,' said John under his breath, 'was that really so bad?'

'It was awful,' complained Sherlock.

John hesitated a moment, meaning to scold his friend, but after a moment decided against it and just said, with a smile, 'Yeah, it was. Let's go home.'

* * *

That evening, just as Sherlock and John were thinking about going to sleep, John started and stood from his armchair, and went through to the kitchen. Sherlock furrowed his brow a little but paid little attention – until, that is, John emerged carrying a little saucer on which he had placed a mince pie and half a carrot, and, in his other hand, a little shot-glass full of wine.

He had scarcely got to the mantelpiece when Sherlock asked, a little accusingly, 'What are you doing?'

John blushed very slightly, shrugged and smiled. 'Leaving these out... Tradition.'

'Father Christmas doesn't exist, John,' Sherlock said in an exasperated sort of voice.

'I realise that,' replied John. 'Really it's just a midnight snack for myself. But I thought I would allow myself to indulge in a bit of my childhood.' And he settled the plate on the mantelpiece next to the skull, and moved a card a little to one side to put down the shot-glass. Then, turning to Sherlock: 'Does that mean you know what I'm doing? Did you put out food for Santa and the reindeer, when you were a child?'

'My parents insisted on it,' Sherlock murmured. 'I never believed in Father Christmas. Neither did Mycroft. Our parents knew that. They pretended that we did. I suppose because it is in the programming of a parent to keep up such a ridiculous lie for at least a few years.'

John stared at him for a moment. He didn't know much about Sherlock's life before Baker Street, and he was never sure whether to believe how strange it seemed to have been. At last he said: 'I believed until I was eight... then Harry told me that Santa was actually our parents. I think I might have cried.' He chuckled. 'Anyway, our mantelpiece looks suitably Christmassy now. I think I might be ready this year.'

And with that sentiment, he went back into the kitchen, and returned with two glasses and the bottle of wine that he had opened.

He poured out two glasses, placed them on the coffee-table and fell back into his armchair. He hadn't known whether Sherlock would take one of them, but to his surprise he did; and to his greater surprise, the detective raised it slightly and said, 'To Christmas.'

John smiled and raised his own glass. 'To Christmas.'

* * *

 **The next update won't be for a couple of days – I'll put it up when Christmas is over with. It will feature Christmas Day in Baker Street, which could be interesting. Will Christmas lunch go well? What will everyone's presents be? And in which earlier chapter did Sherlock tell a bit of a fib?... All is soon to be revealed!**


	8. Christmas Day

**Christmas Day, 2010**

* * *

 **Merry (belated) Christmas everyone! I hope you all had a great Christmas, and that you didn't eat too much turkey, or throw any Monopoly boards at anyone...**

 **Anyway, to Baker Street, without any further ado!**

* * *

Sherlock couldn't remember ever waking up terribly excited on Christmas morning. He supposed that when he had been really little, he must have done, stirred up by the excitement that his parents tried to force down his throat; he had of course disproven the existence of Father Christmas at a very young age, but this didn't stop the "Christmas magic" from pervading him just a little bit.

Well, that had all gone, a long time ago. Now Christmas morning felt like any other morning: dull, and with the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen.

He shrugged on his dressing-gown and padded through to the living-room, which was still bedecked in those infernally garish decorations – he supposed it looked quite nice, from someone else's point of view, but the fairy lights really got on his nerves, because they disrupted his thought processes. John would probably tell him that you shouldn't _think_ on Christmas Day. But he couldn't really stop his mind at will like other people seemed to be able to.

'Morning, Sherlock,' John called a bit sleepily, just about downing his cup of coffee. He didn't usually drink coffee, but it was Christmas, and being awake would probably help.

The creaking floorboards and their conversation must have been audible from downstairs, because Mrs Hudson called up to them: 'Merry Christmas, boys!' before hurrying up the stairs with a couple of mince pies and a little stack of presents and cards. She had already got dressed, which wasn't surprising, because she was a morning person, and also her choir would probably be singing that morning.

'Merry Christmas, Mrs H,' said John, feeling a little guilty for eating a mince pie for breakfast, but smiling broadly as he received his present.

'Merry Christmas,' said Sherlock vaguely.

John went to get their presents for their landlady, and told Sherlock to put on the kettle again so that Mrs Hudson could have a cup of tea. Mrs Hudson looked a bit worried and said she would do it herself. She didn't much trust Sherlock with a kettle, not since he had exploded the microwave, and somehow melted a frying pan. Whilst the water was boiling, Sherlock turned to the present he had received from Mrs Hudson.

It was a scarf. Of course it was. His current scarf had been getting rather tatty over the last few weeks – trust Mrs Hudson to be the one to notice. This new one, furthermore, seemed to be something of an upgrade, being made from a finer cashmere, and being a richer shade of blue. He thanked Mrs Hudson twice when she re-entered the room, once for the scarf, and once for the tea.

John's present, when he got round to opening it, was a jumper almost as garish as the fairy lights. Or at least, that was Sherlock's opinion. John seemed to like it quite a lot. He slipped it on over his shirt, which he had pulled on in something of a hurry, and went to hang up the cards. Whilst he was occupied with that, Sherlock went over to his desk, unlocked one of the drawers and pulled out a handful of sheets of paper.

'I'm sorry: I haven't wrapped them,' he said, vaguely, thrusting a sheaf of paper into Mrs Hudson's hands, and then another into John's.

'Hang on, dear, I haven't got my glasses on.' Mrs Hudson extracted a pair of glasses from her apron pocket, put them on, and squinted at the paper. At the top was written: _For Mrs Hudson_. It was a piece of music.

'Sherlock, dear!' she cried after a moment. 'Oh, look! That's a lovely idea!' She couldn't read music, but she knew that it would be good. Sherlock had a great talent for composing.

'That _is_ a good idea,' John confirmed, looking down his own piece. He had learnt to read music, a long time ago, when he had made the poor choice of taking clarinet lessons, but he had mostly forgotten how to. 'You'll have to play these for us at some point. They _are_ for the violin, aren't they?'

Sherlock nodded, and John grinned.

'I can play them now,' Sherlock said, gravitating towards his violin-case.

'Ah, not just now,' Mrs Hudson cut in. 'I'm going to a carol service in a minute. Singing, you know. Play them for us later.' She paused, and then, a little mischievously, added: 'You don't want to come to the carol service, do you?'

'No,' said Sherlock at once. Both John and Mrs Hudson smiled.

Therefore Mrs Hudson left the flat, and John and Sherlock exchanged glances before moving towards the fireplace. John lit the fire whilst Sherlock collapsed into his armchair, and then went to sit down himself.

'Merry Christmas, Sherlock,' he said.

'Merry Christmas,' replied Sherlock vaguely.

'Well, this is a much better Christmas than last year,' John said with feeling, and did not elaborate, merely sipping at his tea and staring into the fire.

Sherlock tapped his fingertips together and smiled a little knowingly. 'Indeed...'

'Even you seem to have found it tolerable,' John grinned at length.

'Tolerable is quite the word,' Sherlock said, refusing to admit that he was comfortable and somewhat happy and even enjoying himself a little bit. After all, it may have been Christmas Day, but he was still Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Mycroft arrived at ten-thirty precisely, just after Mrs Hudson had returned from her carol-service. A minute beforehand, a dark car pulled up outside the door; the man who got out was swathed almost completely in black winter clothing, and padded up to the house with the quick steps of one who does not much like the outside world.

Mrs Hudson answered the door, and showed Sherlock's brother up to 221B.

'Merry Christmas, dear brother,' he said after a minute spent studying the flat. 'And merry Christmas, John.'

'Merry Christmas,' John replied, just slightly surprised by Mycroft's appearance – he had replied to John's invitation, and thanked him for it, but never actually given any solid indication that he would be coming. Sherlock said nothing.

'And merry Christmas, Mrs –? Ah, yes, Mrs Hudson,' Mycroft said finally.

Mrs Hudson beamed and returned the greeting.

'I see you've been entering into the Christmas spirit,' Mycroft continued, his eyes falling first on the cards and the tree and the decorations, and then the sprig of holly that John had insisted on pinning to Sherlock's buttonhole.

'Sherlock's been... surprising this Christmas,' John told him. 'We took him Christmas shopping – he helped decorate the tree – he met an old uni friend –'

'Acquaintance,' said Sherlock and Mycroft at precisely the same moment.

'And we even managed to get him to sing,' John finished, with a small smile in Mrs Hudson's direction. 'We went to the carol-service that Mrs H's choir was putting on, and to a nativity yesterday. He's not all that bad at singing, actually.'

They all smiled a little at this – but none more so than Mycroft, whose smile was more than a little mischievous.

'I don't suppose my dear brother has told you about the time –'

'Mycroft!' said Sherlock.

'– he was in Les Misérables?' Mycroft finished before Sherlock could cut him off.

'He said he refused to be in Les Mis,' John said, confused.

'Did he now?' Mycroft chuckled. 'He was Javert. The cold, upright police officer. The villain, in fact. He played the part very well.'

Sherlock put his head in his hands. John laughed. He didn't know the musical very well, but just the thought of Sherlock playing a singing policeman was strangely amusing.

Relieving his brother from any further embarrassment, Mycroft changed the subject, and, reaching into his jacket pocket, produced three dark card-shaped envelopes, which he handed to the inhabitants of 221 Baker Street. The cards that they contained were conventional winter-scene ones; John and Mrs Hudson found well-informed choices of gift card in theirs (Mycroft liked to leave the choice of presents to the recipient), and Sherlock found, to everyone's utter amazement, tickets to the New Year's Eve Concert in Vienna.

'Good Lord,' cried Mrs Hudson. 'They're like gold dust.'

'My brother has excellent connexions,' Sherlock shrugged, 'and I doubt he got them for me without there being some ulterior motive.'

'Or perhaps I am merely being uncharacteristically kind to my little brother,' said Mycroft, and smirked. 'No – there _is_ an ulterior motive. I shall tell you what it is when Christmas is over with.'

Sherlock found this an unusually considerate thing for Mycroft to say. He had expected him to drag him to Austria there and then. He merely thanked his brother, and set the tickets and the card on the coffee-table.

Mrs Hudson's present for Mycroft was a bottle of wine, and, as a bit of a joke, a tie with little crowns on it (which Mycroft, fortunately, found mildly amusing). John's was a new book by an economics expert he knew Mycroft admired. And Sherlock's was, of course, a piece of music.

Mycroft looked the music up and down, running his eyes along the staves in an interested sort of fashion. He wasn't half the musician that Sherlock was, but he had a quiet talent for music that manifested itself very occasionally, and a love for it that he could not hide. He smiled a little as he heard this particular composition in his head. It represented what his brother thought of him, and so certainly made for an original piece. It was arranged for the violin, and though Mycroft hadn't touched a violin in years, he thought that this might be the time to pick one up once more.

'When's Molly coming?' asked Mrs Hudson then.

'Some time after eleven, I think she said,' John replied. 'She's having a bit of a lazy morning, I think. I don't blame her.'

'Molly Hooper?' asked Mycroft in mild interest. 'I don't believe we've met.'

'She isn't the most exciting of characters,' Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

'Sherlock,' said John.

'All right, she's _normal_ ,' Sherlock corrected himself. Mycroft grinned, and John smiled a bit despite himself.

Mrs Hudson pulled a couple of chairs through from the kitchen and set them up beside the two armchairs, and the four of them sat down and began to fall into somewhat stilted, but not unpleasant conversation, all the while awaiting Molly's arrival.

* * *

When Molly at last turned up, she seemed a little flustered, and was deeply apologetic about being later than everyone else. John and Mrs Hudson greeted her warmly, and Mycroft and Sherlock surprisingly cordially.

'Thanks so much for inviting me,' said Molly. 'I was going to be on my own otherwise.'

'Don't mention it, dear,' Mrs Hudson said for all of them. 'It's lovely to have you here.'

And immediately after saying that she sniffed the air, and hurried off to her own flat before the roast potatoes burned.

'Anyway, where did I put Molly's present?' asked John, glancing around the room. He spotted it eventually and gave it to her. She opened it to find, unsurprisingly, one of the books she had pointed out a few weeks ago.

Sherlock's present was another piece of music: he didn't know quite when he would be able to play it for her, though he had often considered taking his violin to Bart's (in case he got bored), and this would be as good an excuse as any.

* * *

When Mrs Hudson came back, she said that lunch was nearly ready, and would they all like to sit round the table? Therefore they went through to the kitchen, and sat down. They began to glance furtively at each other, not really knowing how to make conversation. John fingered the cracker next to his plate, and eventually plucked up the courage to pull it with Molly, who was sitting next to him. A hat, a joke and a little plastic moustache fell out. John let Molly take the hat (which was pink), and positioned the plastic moustache beneath his nose. Immediately Sherlock glared at him with distaste and said that it didn't suit him. John hurriedly removed it. He picked up the joke, squinted a little, groaned almost inaudibly and didn't give it the honour of being read out.

At length Mrs Hudson returned upstairs, and the smell of roast turkey came to them even before she had entered the flat. She emerged in the kitchen holding the most magnificent sight: a perfectly done turkey, surrounded by little chipolata sausages, and with one of the last spare holly sprigs on top. Sherlock and John esteemed her cooking, but she had outdone herself today.

'That's marvellous, Mrs H,' John said, his hand absently going for his fork already.

Mrs Hudson grinned and thanked him. 'Now, who's carving it? You, John? – or Sherlock? – or our guest of honour, the King of England?' She beamed cheekily at Mycroft, who, to everyone's surprise, managed to smile.

'I think you had better,' John replied.

'I'll just get the vegetables and things,' Mrs Hudson said, and bustled off. She returned with trays of crisp roast potatoes, glazed carrots, peas and sprouts, which made everyone's mouth water.

Mrs Hudson sat down, and began to carve the turkey; as she handed it round, everyone thanked her profusely. When they had all got the food that they wanted, Molly encouraged those still with crackers to pull them, because she felt left out being the only one wearing a hat.

John seriously doubted that Sherlock and Mycroft would wear their cracker hats; but, as if to spite him, they both put theirs on, the one blue, the other a suitably royal shade of purple. (Sherlock did not deign to play with the little plastic jumping frog that had come in his cracker, and so John gave it a flick, watching with regret as it landed in his wine-glass.) Then, after all the crackers were pulled, they tucked in to their dinner.

If their meal was almost silent, it was less because they had nothing to say, more because the food was so good. Once the main course was finished, gratitude rained on Mrs Hudson, who was very modest about it all. The Christmas pudding, which Mrs Hudson briefly set alight, nearly singeing her cracker hat in the process, was also a great success. When they were finished, she set about taking everything back downstairs, whilst the others moved back through to the living-room.

Fuelled by this magnificent dinner, and made a little merry by the wine, they found that conversation now came a little easier. John regaled them all with his and Sherlock's antics over the festive season. Sherlock grimaced at the appropriate moments. Molly told a few tales from the morgue, which, though grim, were of interest and a somewhat morbid amusement to her listeners. Mycroft told them a few vague stories that John suspected should not be repeated outside of 221B, owing to their hinting at important state secrets, and wondered if Mycroft had drunk a bit too much. And when Mrs Hudson returned upstairs, her stream of amusing anecdotes occupied them for almost an hour.

* * *

When their dinner had settled, and conversation was beginning to dry up, Mrs Hudson hurried back to 221A and returned with an old-fashioned Monopoly set. On catching sight of it, both Sherlock and Mycroft groaned, but Molly and John looked pleased, Monopoly being a game that depends far more on chance than intelligence, and so not one that the Holmes brothers could win every time.

John had rather feared that Sherlock would leave the game or throw a minor tantrum quite quickly, but the detective stayed in the game, as did everyone else, and they managed to play until late into the afternoon. Mycroft managed to get Mayfair and Park Lane*, but, to everyone's surprise, Mrs Hudson beat them all hands down with hotels on the green properties. Perhaps it was a good job it was she who had won, because everyone graciously accepted this defeat and congratulated her warmly.

Tea was served later on, and didn't consist of too much, as they were all full from lunch. Mycroft left soon afterwards, and Molly didn't stay too long, and Mrs Hudson went to make a start on the huge pile of washing-up, leaving just John and Sherlock to sit in their armchairs and reflect on the day.

It had been a success, they knew that much. Both of them had a warm sort of feeling inside that wasn't just from the mulled wine. John was still wearing his cracker hat, and Sherlock his holly buttonhole. Their eyes met, and John said, sounding a bit surprised:

'It's been a good Christmas.'

'It hasn't been the worst,' said Sherlock, which translated as precisely what John had just said.

John smiled, leaned back and promptly fell asleep in his armchair. Sherlock watched as the doctor's head bobbed, and chuckled a little, and began to reflect.

He couldn't remember ever enjoying a Christmas this much. He had always spent them at home with his parents and brother, or on his own, usually in fairly unpleasant locations. It seemed like a dream to find himself in this gorgeous little flat having spent his Christmas Day surrounded by good acquaintances and his one friend. Nothing had gone wrong, nobody had argued, nobody had acted like they didn't appreciate Sherlock's presence (an action that got to him more than he would like to admit): and he felt – well, he felt happy, and satisfied, and that didn't happen very often at all.

He might have felt and thought other things, but his own head then fell onto his chest, and he too fell asleep in his armchair.

* * *

 ***the most expensive properties on the British Monopoly board**


	9. Boxing Day

**Boxing Day, 2010**

* * *

If anyone had been listening in to 221B Baker Street in the quiet of Boxing Day – the lull after Christmas was over with – they would have heard the virtuosic playing of a Stradivarius violin, eking out tunes quite unlike anything they might have heard before. At Mrs Hudson's insistence, Sherlock was playing the pieces he had written for her and for John: and the recipients were rather enjoying it.

Mrs Hudson's piece was cheerful enough, and really rather beautiful. A flurry of action in the central section perfectly depicted her bustling helpful nature. This part was "book-ended" by a rather more serious bit, which John suspected depicted parts of Mrs Hudson's character that he didn't know much about at all; and a warm, attractive ending that was more than a little maternal.

When Sherlock had finished playing, he bowed slightly, receiving with a blush John and Mrs Hudson's applause. Mrs Hudson was smiling broadly, and said that he had described her perfectly, and that he must record the piece so she could listen to it whenever she wanted.

'That's a good idea,' said John. 'I might see if I can get him to record mine as well... actually, I won't commit myself just yet, I haven't heard my piece.'

'Then let's hear it,' Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock said nothing, but merely smiled, and set aside Mrs Hudson's piece. He replaced it on the stand with John's. He was conscious of the fact that this one was much longer, and also that he had put a lot more effort into it. Hopefully the two of them, neither of whom was much educated in music, would not notice.

John's was a driving piece, not too energetic, nor especially bright, but very deep, and even John could tell that. Fragments of his distinct personality were melded into a chaotic but amiable piece of music: his kindness, warmth and affability all shone through, but they were pierced by the darkness of his past, the action of his present, the uncertainty of his future. Sherlock seemed to know John better than the doctor did himself, which was bizarre for one usually so incapable of understanding people.

Yet despite its turbulence the piece ended quietly, modestly, a perfect depiction of the man who now sat listening and contemplating the music that his friend played. The final note shimmered, and then vanished, plunging the room into a remarkable calmness.

John and Mrs Hudson applauded even more enthusiastically than they had the first time, having recognised that this piece was by far the better – a fact that Mrs Hudson did not in the least resent, knowing how great was the friendship between her two tenants. Sherlock blushed again, but tried to hide it, inclining his torso in the slightest hint of a bow.

When they had finished clapping, he began to run a silk handkerchief down his bow. His brow was furrowed but otherwise he did not acknowledge his success, nor react to his own composition in any way. It seemed that in musicianship, unlike most other matters, he was exceedingly modest.

'Sherlock, that was great. Really,' said John, receiving the sheet music to study it. 'Thank you.'

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. He slid his violin and bow into their case and went to sit in his armchair.

'A really thoughtful Christmas present,' Mrs Hudson added.

John nodded in agreement. Sherlock's mouth twitched.

'Are we taking down the decorations this afternoon?' he asked, entirely skirting the subject.

'May as well start,' John murmured. 'I'll be back at work this week... God, I hope there aren't too many people who've overdosed on Christmas dinner. You always get a cohort who think that their indigestion is stomach cancer or something.'

Mrs Hudson chuckled at John's disparaging expression. 'Yes!... it'll be back to normal soon. That _will_ feel strange.'

'It's been a bit like a dream,' John commented at length, lazily casting his gaze over the Christmas decorations, which looked a little tacky all of a sudden. 'I mean, I know I said Christmas magic and all that was ridiculous, but I don't know how else to explain how weird this December has been.'

'Well,' said Mrs Hudson, 'this year's been different for all of us. You've come back to England and settled down for the first time. Sherlock's also settling down for the first time. And I've never been a landlady before. Us three being together has been _very_ different, for all of us – and add to that the chaos of Christmas, but also its power to unite, and –'

She broke off beaming, unable to continue in this philosophical manner that didn't quite suit her, and glanced towards the calendar. 'It'll soon be 2011! Can you believe it?'

John laughed and shook his head. Admittedly, even though it was the 26th of December, he hadn't even started to think about the New Year yet. 'I haven't got past Christmas yet... give it a few days.'

'Oh, God,' said Sherlock all of a sudden.

They turned to look at him.

'Mycroft's dragging me to Vienna...'

'You're going to a concert, aren't you?' John said. 'It won't be all bad –'

'Strauss,' said Sherlock at once. John blinked. 'Johann Strauss the Younger,' Sherlock explained. 'The Viennese light music composer. His music generally dominates the New Year's Eve Concert. I can't stand it. Cheap and cheerful nonsense.'

'Ah, well,' John shrugged, smiling. 'You have a few more days of freedom, though... unless something comes up in the next few days. Though cases have been a bit sparse this month.'

'It's the Christmas spirit,' Mrs Hudson grinned.

Sherlock scoffed a little. 'There's no such thing as a –'

'– Christmas spirit, we know,' Mrs Hudson and John said at the same moment, and all three of them laughed.

'Speaking of which,' Mrs Hudson continued after a moment, 'I've still got some of that mulled wine left.'

She disappeared into the kitchen, and, after letting out a small cry of distaste on finding a jar of something human on the wine rack, poured some mulled wine into a pan and let it simmer for a bit. Once again the scent of cloves and oranges pervaded the house.

She brought a tray through a short while later, carrying it like a waitress, and balancing three glasses with prodigious skill; each of them took a glass, and hesitated a moment before clinking them together in a toast.

'To 2011,' Mrs Hudson said.

'To 2011,' John and Sherlock echoed.

'And to the Baker Street gang,' Mrs Hudson added, with a grin.

'To the Baker Street gang!' they replied with great feeling: and the three drank to their friendship, smiling round at each other, and hoping with all their hearts that they would spend many more Christmases together.


End file.
